Protect Your Treasure
by Jabraille
Summary: The professor faces a riddle he cannot solve when Flora falls ill. Set soon after "The Curious Village". Short but complex, experimental/stream-of-conscious. Comments on content, structure, format, and rating always appreciated.
1. Native

Teatime, enjoying the delicate aroma of Earl Grey steeping. Sitting stiffly—his back is slow in healing, bruised to the bone by the sharp descent, the rolling fall, arched to protect the Golden Apple, unbruised and unbroken, smiling at the last.

Three crumbling scones, all stale, traces of currants stolen by mice perhaps, barely a spoonful of tea leaves. So hard to work with a bad back. Money nearly gone. Apprentice too young rough tender suspicious and over all rash and reckless, can't leave him to the world yet. Making do, getting by.

She enters like the dawn, elegant-innocent, his girl in sweet muslin print, the porcelain-white china-blue of a teacup, auburn waves tied in blue ribbon. Beautiful young woman but blushing, strange—flushed, eyelid flutter

legs folding like a dropped handkerchief

try to catch her—falls too fast, teacup shatter

_Flora!_

* * *

Fever. Influenza heat killed the first flower and now she withers in his arms, strange yellow rose and the birthmark burning white at her breast, arcane affection unravelling in tiny gasping breaths

–Go, Luke. No! Do as I say. But _We're fine. Go on!_ echoes of collapsing staircases, the tower torn apart splitting brittle wood stone petrified _Professor!_ now reaching for words with his small eager hands empty air empty hands, Very well, professor.

Long night without the small voice questioning, the mind speaks itself in the darkness-silence. The mind is not enough, professor, learning and experience leave you wide-eye paralysed watching your treasure slip away in the first fingers of heartless dawn.

* * *

Professor. Flora, I'm here. Where? Oh god Flora I'm here can't you see Take my hand Here I can't feel it Flora please Is there any water I'll fetch some No wait Yes Please just a moment Of course Press harder I can't feel it Flora let me give you What I don't know Flora I don't know I don't understand I have nothing to give you sweet child

Fluttering eyes heart fingers weakly grasping It's all right I don't need anything Flora half-choking sobs Flora I want to save you from this It's all right I don't need to be saved again you're always so good to me

Flora please grasping her hand what about the gold What We could send for _No_ wild eyes no we can't Please Flora No I can't end their lives Flora my dearest child they aren't real They raised me loved me Your father loved you through them Flora he would sacrifice them to save you they would sacrifice themselves

No turn to the wall I love them they belong to me I would rather die

* * *

Hours time lost found dragging its feet limping up the stairs last of the tea half a biscuit

Flora my angel yellow-rose on white cotton are you awake slow tilt heavy head Yes barely a sound sand-gravel throat I have tea for you my darling girl and something to eat Not hungry maybe later Please Flora sets beside her influenza reboiling the tea you must eat love Later I promise Flora I straightening

jolt lightning-rod spine spasm wordless shriek too many words not enough can't steer this broken craft crash curl on wood racked retching unbearable can't move can't be still

soft touch smouldering iron small fevered hand on clammy brow Professor weak cling clasp _Professor_ jaw fist clinch gather centre deep welling strength raise head look into wide glassy eyes Professor what can I do small hands press hold crush _no_ protect your treasure

Professor seeking hands eyes please tell me what's wrong Flora there's no use now trying to find the floor walls bed pull up beside her if you want to help me Please Please stay with me don't perish for their sake let them rest Rest professor please spider-hand stroking damp hair Flora Professor send for the gold ask Bruno let him keep the rest just enough to mend you professor oh I can't let you suffer for me

When I can move again weak smile I swear it

* * *

Luke pushing wheeled chair Flora's here professor laughter and tears in their voices Good morning professor I'm feeling much better

slight head tilt You look better dear child can't move for wooden ship-ribs brace cradle comfort constraint no one speaks silent weight waiting will he walk again?

I've bought you a present well Luke bought it but I told him to hearing her smile, smiling eyes half-close imagine the golden apple glowing Oh did you now that's very thoughtful of you It's useful Luke always a bird hop-flitting sudden chirp tell him Flora It's a walking-stick

silence of welling tears cold inner wrenching Thank you both very much smallest sob ripples pain through hiss grimace no mustn't frighten them shallow breath rapid blink oh god did she see

I'm a little tired Luke decrescendo voice dove-soft could you bring me back to my room please Of course good-bye professor Good-bye my boy good-bye dear girl creaking no echo

empty gaze at the ceiling cracked plaster small rifts can't solve the ceiling like a puzzle but this he must solve—resolving

Come what may, she will not lose another father.


	2. Translation

**Author's Note:** I have "translated" my original experimental/stream-of-conscious fic, not because the single anonymous review suggesting I do so has convinced me of the necessity, but in truth because I may reference this story in other fanfics I intend to write, and I don't want to confuse potential readers of my potential "conventional" fics by referring them back to a less-accessible work. I've tried to keep the best bits in there, but the essential thing is to communicate _what happens_ (and how Layton feels about it).

This version has not been beta-read; as I said, it is a reference—a translation—not a work in itself.

* * *

It's teatime. The professor enjoys the delicate aroma of Earl Grey tea steeping. He sits stiffly; his back, bruised to the bone by the rolling fall from his improvised hang-glider, is slow in healing.

At least he had protected Flora, the Golden Apple, unharmed—smiling at the last.

There are only three crumbling scones on the tray, all stale, the currants missing (possibly stolen by mice), and barely enough tea leaves left to fill a spoon. It's so hard to work with a bad back, and with less work comes less money, his reserve funds dwindling.

Luke has offered to help, but he's too young, rough, tender, suspicious—mostly too rash and reckless—he can't be sent out alone yet. They were making do, getting by.

Flora walks in, bright and soft, elegant-innocent; her muslin print dress is porcelain-white and china-blue like a teacup, her hair tied back with a matching blue ribbon. She's a beautiful young woman...

Strangely, she seems to be blushing. No, she's flushed—her eyelids flutter.

Her legs fold under her, swiftly and silently, like a dropped handkerchief.

The professor tries to catch her, but she falls too fast.

The teacup shatters.

"Flora!"

* * *

Flora has a raging fever. Influenza heat had long ago killed her mother, Violet, the first flower. Now Flora withers in his arms, her complexion rosy-jaundiced; the apple-shaped birthmark shows up white on her collarbone—the symbol of her happiness becoming an omen of her malady as she breaths in pained little gasps.

"Go, Luke," orders the professor.

"No!"

"Do as I say."

"But—"

"We're fine," snaps Layton. "Go on!"

His words hark back to those he shouted on the collapsing staircase as the tower was torn apart, brittle wood and stone splitting, Luke separated from the others, petrified—_Professor!_

Now he reaches for words as Layton had reached for Flora; eager as he is, he reaches into empty air and withdraws nothing.

"Very well, Professor," he says quietly.

The night seems longer without Luke's small voice questioning him. In the darkness and silence, Layton's mind speaks itself. _The mind is not enough,_ it says. _Learning and experience have left you with your eyes wide open, but you're still paralyzed, watching your treasure slip away as the sun rises._

* * *

"Professor."

He's at her side in an instant. "Flora, I'm here."

"Where?"

"Oh, God—Flora, I'm here. Can't you see?"

She blinks, her eyes glazed. "Take my hand."

"Here," he says, wrapping his hand around hers.

"I can't feel it."

His sigh is almost a prayer. "Flora... please..."

"Is there any water?" she asks.

"I'll fetch some," he replies, beginning to stand, but her fingers clench in his.

"No—wait."

"Yes?"

"Please... just a moment."

He understands.

"Press harder. I can't feel it."

"Flora, let me give you..."

Water is not enough.

"What?"

It will never be enough.

"I don't know, Flora," he manages, barely. "I just don't know."

"...I don't understand."

What little he has is worth nothing in these moments.

"I have nothing to give you, sweet child."

Her eyelids quiver; he feels her pulse increase as she weakly grasps his fingers.

"It's all right," she whispers. "I don't need anything."

"Flora—" He's half-choking, sobbing. "Flora, I want to save you from this."

"It's all right. I don't need to be saved again." Her smile breaks his heart. "You're always so good to me."

Saved again. He thinks. An idea!

"Flora, please," he says, pressing her hand gently, "what about the gold?"

"...What?"

"We could send for—"

"_No._" Her eyes are suddenly wild. "No, we can't."

"Please—Flora—"

"No," she says, her voice weak and strong both. "I can't end their lives."

"Flora, my dearest child, they aren't real."

"They raised me," she insists, "–loved me!"

"Your father loved you through them, Flora. He would sacrifice them to save you." He hesitates briefly. "They would sacrifice themselves."

"No." She turns to the wall. "I love them. They belong to me." Her words chill him: "I would rather die."

* * *

The hours drag, time moving unevenly. Layton limps up the stairs with a tray, bringing Flora the last of the tea and half a biscuit. He pauses at her bedside, just looking at her, the same yellow-rose against white cotton sheets.

"Flora, my angel," he whispers, "are you awake?"

She tilts her head slowly, heavily. "Yes."

She barely makes a sound, rasping. Her throat must be raw from heat and dry coughing.

"I have tea for you, my darling girl, and something to eat."

"Not hungry," she murmurs. "Maybe later."

"Please, Flora." He sets the tray beside her. Her fever is so high, it could almost boil the tea-water again. "You must eat, love."

"Later. I promise."

He sighs, then straightens his spine to stand. "Flora, I—"

Pain jolts him—his spine is a lightning rod—spasms—he shrieks, too many words to say, not enough words—

He can't stay upright. He falls to the floor, curling up in agony. He can't move—he can't be still—nothing eases this pain.

A soft touch distracts him with its smouldering heat. It's Flora's hand, small and feverish, against his clammy brow.

"Professor?" She just barely clasps his hand. "Professor!"

He clenches his jaw and one fist, gathering and centring himself, calling up his deepest reserves of strength, and raised his head to look into Flora's wide glassy eyes.

"Professor, what can I do?"

Her hands are so small. He presses them, holds them, fighting a wave of pain to keep from crushing her hand. He must protect his treasure.

She finds him with her hands and eyes. "Professor, please tell me what's wrong."

"Flora..." He doubts he can find the floor or walls, so he pulls himself up, leans against the bed beside her. "If you want to help me..."

"Please!"

"...please, stay with me. Don't perish for their sake." His shoulders are stooped. "Let them rest."

"Rest, Professor, please." Her little spiderlike hand strokes his damp hair.

"Flora," he breathes.

"Professor, send for the gold. Ask Bruno—let him keep the rest—just enough to mend you, Professor. –Oh, I can't let you suffer for me!"

"When I can move again," he promises, smiling weakly. "I swear it."

* * *

Luke brings in Flora on a wheeled chair. "Flora's here, Professor!"

"Good morning, Professor. I'm feeling much better."

He hears laughter and tears in their voices.

"You look better, dear child."

He tilts his head slightly to see her; he can't move very far because of the wooden brace, curved like a ship's ribs, cradling him to support his back. No one speaks for a moment, the thought weighing heavy on them: Will he ever walk again? They can only wait and see.

Flora breaks the silence at last. "I've bought you a present. –Well, Luke bought it, but I told him to."

Layton hears her smiling; he smiles himself, half-closing his eyes, and imagines her birthmark glowing. "Oh, did you, now? That's very thoughtful of you."

"It's useful," she tells him teasingly.

Luke, always hopping and flitting like a bird, suddenly chirps: "Tell him, Flora!"

"It's a walking-stick."

Tears well up in his eyes; something in him aches coldly. "Thank you both very much."

The smallest sob makes pain ripple through him. He hisses, almost grimaces—no, he mustn't frighten them. He takes a shallow breath and blinks rapidly. Oh, God, did she see...?

"I'm a little tired, Luke," says Flora, her voice lowering, soft as a dove. "Could you bring me back to my room, please?

"Of course. Good-bye, Professor."

"Good-bye, my boy. Good-bye, dear girl." His voice creaks. He hears no echo from Flora.

Alone, he gazes at the ceiling, tracing small rifts in the cracked plaster. Silly to think he could solve the ceiling like a puzzle.

There is still one puzzle he must solve.

He resolves: _Come what may, she will not lose another father._


End file.
